A ship set sail many moons ago. Across a harsh, turbulent sea, the vessel pushed forward. The rugged crew, tested by times of famine and poverty, was a surly but fun bunch. When the ship docked in local waters, it brought strange and exotic spices from the faraway land of "Pitts-berg." The ship's colors were odd: a mix of what the sailors referred to as "Black and Gold," and the crew spoke constantly of a set of great warriors they called "The Steelers." There were other ships with bigger, better weapons (and thousands of giant plasma screens), but those ships lacked the soul — the loyalty of a pack of lovelorn sailors in tropical exile. To witness such dedication — the clan generally worships on Sundays in the fall — is to peer at the fickle desperation deep in every seaman's heart. They say the shrieking sound of the pleas from the despairing men aboard would reduce even the most stoic admiral to tears. The ship eventually became known in legends as "The Wayward Sailor Pub." Yes, there might be shinier boats on the water, but none so pure and true as she.